


Force-Fledging

by yellowwarbler



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Domestic Violence, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Humiliation, Intersex Omegas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:47:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27918451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowwarbler/pseuds/yellowwarbler
Summary: Bruce might not want anything to do with Dick, but Slade is happy to pick up the pieces. Dick is so glad his luck has finally taken a turn for the better.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Comments: 25
Kudos: 192
Collections: Batfam Kinkmas Exchange 2020





	Force-Fledging

**Author's Note:**

  * For [withthekeyisking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/gifts).



> Thanks to [salmonellagogo](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/Salmonellagogo/pseuds/Salmonellagogo) for beta reading!
> 
> Withthekeyisking, you had some great prompts. It was difficult to pick one! I hope you enjoy this.

The car barely rolls to a stop before Dick is shoving the door open and springing out. He slams it behind him for good measure. Bruce doesn't call after him.

Dick tries to breathe, slow and even. He can't make a scene. What happens in the Bat-cave can't affect Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson. Even so, as Dick pastes a smile on his face and carefully avoids making eye contact with the alphas milling about Bristol township's country club, he feels the anger burning a hole in his chest as keenly as he did the night before. He doesn't think he'll ever forgive Bruce. He doesn't know how he could.

He should have left last night.

Dick sees Bruce walk in and ducks out the service door to the green. The charity tee off isn't for another hour. They'll all be drinking first. The pheromones a room full of drunk alphas can put off would be nauseating enough. Dick won't subject himself to that _and_ pretending he's thrilled to be there with Bruce while he drums up support for the new housing initiative.

God help him if one of Bruce's many associates starts dropping hints about him being of age again.

The green is mostly empty. The full course was reserved for the charity, but the half course down below would still be open to a select few. Dick wastes no time in making his way down the steep slope toward the half course. He sees not a single soul on the property until he reaches the first hole. 

Dick walks slumped over, his hands shoved in the pockets of his blazer. He's fortunate Bruce keeps him clothed like a beta. In the early morning cold, he'd freeze in the kind of decorative clothes his omega peers wore. He pulls his hands from his pockets and rubs them together, peering at the man in the distance.

The stranger stands on the fairway at the second hole, cueing up a ball. His white hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, an unusual style for an elderly man. His form is sloppy. Dick knows fuck all about golf, but he's been to enough of these charity golf outings to know when someone's doing a good or a poor job. 

Dick can't help himself. He jogs over and calls out to the man, "Do you need some help?"

The man pauses mid-swing. Up close now, Dick sees just how large he is, the height of him, the breadth of his shoulders. Dick is of a good height for an omega, has the muscle and stamina of an alpha, but in that moment, watching the flex of the stranger's back through his shirt, Dick feels impossibly small. 

As it turns out, the white hair isn't related to age. When he turns, his face is that of a man not much older than Bruce. One eye is covered by a patch, the uncovered eye a penetrating blue, a shade Dick hasn't ever seen on a real person. 

"And you think you can help me, boy?"

"I--yes. I can help." Dick doesn't close the distance between them. 

"I was beginning to think this place didn't have caddies to spare for paying customers," the man says. He rests the end of the club on the green and looks expectantly at Dick. "Fix my tee."

Dick looks at the tee. It's a little lopsided. The tee doesn't actually have anything to do with the man's bad form, but Dick can't help feeling subdued. He wants to listen. 

He kneels on the green, peering up at the man for the briefest of moments, before adjusting the tee. He's an alpha. Dick recognizes that at once. His presence is unnerving. He thinks of Bruce towering over him and finds himself unable to look up at Slade.

Dick stands in a rush. "That should work," he mutters. He should have stayed in the club, maybe hid in the bathroom. He feels like a fool--and worse: a child.

The man doesn't look at the tee. He keeps his eye on Dick. 

Dick feels like an insect pinned to a board. He forces himself not to move, not to squirm. 

Then the man turns away, stoops down and drops the ball on the tee, and takes a shot. 

Dick watches the muscles flex beneath the man's shirt. He doesn't see where the ball goes.

Still, the man makes a satisfied sound, one hand over his eye to shield it from the sun as he watches where the ball falls. "Good enough," he announced. "Come with me."

"With you?" Dick asks. "Why would I go with you?"

"Isn't that what they pay you for?" The man looks him over. "Dressed a little nice for a caddy, though."

Dick isn't a caddy. He doesn't know the first thing about caddying. But he looks back toward the clubhouse. He doesn't want to go back _there_. Nowhere else to go but forward. "There's an event today," he says. "A lot of important people. Tee off isn't for a while, though, so I can help you. If you want."

The man doesn't have a very expressive face, but Dick gets the impression he's being judged. "It's what I said, isn't it? But if you want to head back there and listen to Gotham's richest pat themselves on the back for throwing money at Crime Alley, be my guest." The man turns and walks off, leaving his bag of clubs behind.

Dick scrambles to grab it and catches sight of the tag. Wilson, it says. Could be a first name or a last name. He turns the tag over and frowns. Blank. 

"Boy!" Mr. Wilson is all the way at the third hole. His hands are cupped around his mouth, voice carrying. If it weren't for the music, they'd hear him back in the clubhouse. Dick's face burns.

"I'm coming!" He lifts the bag, the strap secured over his shoulder, and jogs to the third hole. The bag is heavy, but Dick's carried heavier. He's run with Donna's body in a fireman's hold. The weight of the bag is nothing.

When he gets to the third hole, Mr. Wilson holds out a hand. It takes Dick an embarrassing length of time to realize he wants a club. Dick pulls one out of the bag and hands it to him.

Mr. Wilson takes the club. "What is this?"

"Your club." 

"What kind of club?" Mr. Wilson asks. 

Damn. Damn, damn, _damn_. "A golf club," Dick guesses.

Mr. Wilson throws back his head and laughs. "I can't decide if you're just an idiot or liar, boy, but you're sure as hell not a caddy."

"I wasn't lying," Dick insists, dropping the bag. "You just assumed!"

"Sure I did," Mr. Wilson says. He doesn't look angry. He looks amused. It's the first real expression he's worn. Dick can't look away. "But you didn't exactly go out of your way to set me straight, did you, kid?"

"I'm not a kid," flies out of Dick's mouth before he can stop himself. He feels wrong-footed around Mr. Wilson, young and stupid like he hasn't felt in a long time. Dick's used to feeling confident, to being in control. "I'm almost eighteen."

Mr. Wilson plants the end of the golf club into the green and leans on the handle. His nostrils flare.

Dick is suddenly very conscious of the sweat running down his neck and his temples. He doesn't wear scent dampeners as Dick Grayson. It's not proper. He crosses his arms over his chest and takes a step back.

Mr. Wilson laughs again. "Relax. No need to ruffle your feathers." He holds out a hand. "The name's Slade Wilson."

Hesitant, Dick grasps Slade's hand. He makes sure to squeeze harder than necessary. "I'm Dick Grayson. It's nice to meet you." The nicety slips out without Dick's permission. He doesn't know if it's nice to meet Slade or not.

At his name, Slade's eyebrows arch up. "Bruce Wayne's kid?" he asks. 

Dick's stomach knots. He definitely doesn't want to talk about Bruce. "His _ward_ ," he spits out, "and only for another three months."

Silence falls between them. Slade's gaze is fixed on Dick, his face smoothing back into an unreadable mask. In the distance, Dick hears music and above it the echo of laughter and talking. Even at nine in the morning, Gotham's upper crust is ready to party.

Slade reaches out and brushes his knuckles against Dick's cheek. The skin beneath his touch burns. "It figures," Slade begins, "Wayne doesn't know how to handle a good thing."

Dick freezes. His eyes are wide. But before he can say anything, Slade turns away and puts the club back into the bag, running his hands over the others before selecting one. He goes about setting up the shot, disregarding Dick completely. Dick wills his heart to slow its pace.

"Are you from Gotham?"

Slade looks over his shoulder at Dick before focusing again at the task at hand. "I'm just passing through."

"For work?" Dick asks, lingering at Slade's side. 

"Yeah," Slade says, "for work. Shouldn't you be getting back to Wayne?"

That stings. It shouldn't, not being as used to cutting dismissals as Dick is, but he can't ignore the little niggling of hurt in his chest. Slade's just some random alpha, someone Dick will likely never see again. He doesn't have even a quarter of the experiences Dick does, would probably piss himself scared if he came across the Joker or any one of the criminals Dick goes toe to toe with every night. But.

 _But_.

Dick wants Slade's attention. It probably could have been any alpha, but it's Slade who's standing in front of him. He wants _someone_ to look at him like he's worth something. He doesn't want to think about the Robin uniform he'll never wear again, or how he'll never fly again. 

"He won't miss me," Dick says. He hopes he doesn't sound as desperate as he feels.

Slade hums. He looks at Dick again, then puts the club back in the bag. "You hungry?"

"I could be," Dick says. Then he frowns. "But the clubhouse is going to be--"

"Not the clubhouse," Slade interrupts. He shrugs the bag onto one shoulder and rests his hand on the back of Dick's neck. His thumb brushes against Dick's gland. "Come on. My treat."

Heat flushes through Dick's body. He can feel the red rising in his face and bleeding down the length of his neck to his chest. He knows the modestly high collar of his shirt does nothing to hide it. He shouldn't let Slade touch him so casually. Bruce would throw a fit if he were there.

But Bruce isn't there. Bruce doesn't want to be.

Dick steps closer to Slade. He can't quite look at him but does manage to say, "Well, if it's your treat…"

Standing side by side, Slade is a good half a foot taller than Dick. Dick is uncomfortably aware of the sheer size of the man next to him. They walk together in silence toward the clubhouse, but Slade steers them away from the building itself. They walk around it, leaving footprints in the manicured grass. They eventually reach the parking lot for non-members. Dick can tell, although he's never seen it before. No valet.

The only car in the lot is a sleek black Lamborghini with a Wisconsin license plate. Dick looks from it to Slade, frowning. The picture doesn't fit.

Slade never takes his hand off Dick. He walks him to the car and opens the door for him, closing it after Dick climbs in. Dick's never been treated like this, and he's around alphas _all the time_. "Where are we going?"

Slade puts his hand on Dick's thigh, the other on the steering wheel. "Name a place," he says. "Anything you want."

Dick kind of wants to shove Slade's hand off and jump out of the car. It's not normal, is it? For an alpha to be so casual with an omega he just met. Alfred would say it's not normal. Bruce _definitely_. But, that growing angry whisper at the back of his mind pipes up, _they aren't here. In three months, they won't have the right to interfere._

"There's a street vendor by Robinson Park," Dick suggests. It's a hot dog stand in the afternoon, a damn good one, but from eight to eleven, the vendor sells coffee and donuts. And he _always_ gives Robin free food if he happens to be around. It's the sort of suggestion Dick would make to Bruce. He half expects Slade to laugh at him.

But all Slade says is, "Sure, kid." 

The interior of the car is as nice as anything Bruce owns. Dick is used to the finer things now. Slade doesn't look like he should be. Something about him doesn't quite fit, and the detective in Dick can't seem to let it go. "Where in Wisconsin are you from?"

"Who said I was from Wisconsin?"

"Your license plate," Dick supplies. "Is that where your business is?"

Slade glances at him, then back to the road. His hand remains on Dick's thigh. It's big, covers the span of his thigh with his fingers teasing toward the space between Dick's legs. "You ask a lot of questions."

"I like to know about alphas I spend time with." Dick tries for casual, but he hears Slade laugh under his breath.

"I own property there," Slade says. "I travel for work. Security consulting. You spend a lot of time with alphas?"

Dick doesn't know what to do with his hands. If he rests them on his lap, he might accidentally touch Slade's hand. That would give Slade the wrong idea, right? This isn't like being with Donna or Roy. There's a tension between them Dick's never experienced before. He settles for fiddling with the strap of his seatbelt. "Most of my friends are alphas."

Slade's hand squeezes his thigh. "Just friends?"

Dick shivers and looks out the window. "Just friends," he confirms, quiet. He isn't wrong. This is very, _very_ different. But he doesn't think he minds.

________

Dick misses tee off. He misses the entire tournament, actually, which normally wouldn't be a very big deal, but it _was_ the Thomas Wayne Golf Charity to benefit the Crime Alley housing initiative, Bruce's current pet project. Bruce started texting him around eleven. Dick never responded.

When Slade drops Dick off at the end of the long sloping driveway to the manor, it occurs to Dick he may have chosen poorly.

"Shit." The car is idling in the road. Dick undoes his seatbelt, then slumps. He thumbs through the text messages he ignored. Some are from Alfred.

"Wayne throwing a fit?" Slade asks.

"Kind of," Dick admits. "He can be--well, he likes to know where I am."

"He's an alpha," Slade says. "Of course he does." He pulls Dick's phone from his hand and thumbs to a new message screen, tapping something in. Slade's phone chimes in his pocket. "I'll be in town for a few weeks," he says. He hands the phone back to Dick.

Dick takes it and nearly drops it. Slade wants to see him again? "I'd like to see you again," Dick says. 

"I know. Shoot me a message. I'll make time for you." 

The words warm Dick. Slade will _make time for him_. He wants to be around Dick. Not Robin. Not Richard Grayson, Bruce Wayne's ward. He wants to spend time with just Dick.

Slade reaches out and touches Dick's face, smoothing his thumb across Dick's lower lip. Dick leans into the touch, following after it when Slade draws back. Slade doesn't laugh at him. He looks approving. Dick feels warm from head to toe, almost giddy, like that time he and Roy snuck some of Ollie’s liquor. He wants to feel like this forever, but the manor is waiting for him. Bruce is angry, not that he has the right to be. Dick just wants to hold on to the moment a little longer. So he leans forward and kisses Slade.

The moment he does it, Dick knows he shouldn’t have. He can _feel_ it. But Slade doesn’t shove him off or yell at him or any of the myriad of negative reactions Dick’s mind supplies at lightspeed. Slade chuckles against the seam of Dick’s lips. One big hand cradles the side of Dick’s face and tilts him just so. 

“You’re biting off more than you can chew, kid,” Slade says, but that doesn’t stop him from kissing Dick back, tugging Dick across the armrest to sprawl gracelessly half over Slade’s lap. His scent hangs in the air, overpowering. If Dick felt drunk before, he isn’t sure what this feeling is.

Slade kisses him deeper, his tongue pushing into Dick’s mouth, stroking against Dick’s own. The armrest digs into Dick’s side, and his leg is caught at an uncomfortable angle, but Dick’s body still flushes with pleasure. He’s wet already and wants to squeeze his thighs together against the feeling. Slade’s hand is hot like a brand against Dick’s lower back, sliding steadily lower until he’s palming Dick’s ass.

Dick tries to squirm closer, whimpering into Slade’s mouth, but instead of moving closer, Slade draws back. “Wayne’s waiting,” he reminds Dick. His already deep voice is lower, hoarser. Dick made him sound like that.

“I don’t really want to go,” Dick admits. He slides back into the passenger seat and opens the door. He doesn’t get out. “I’ll call you?”

“You will,” Slade agrees. The certainty in his voice carries Dick all the way up the driveway to the front door of the manor like he’s gliding, untouchable. 

He isn't, of course, and crossing the threshold into the manor proper feels like casting off that warm armor to stand naked beneath the frigid force of Bruce's disapproval. He says nothing to Dick, but when Alfred closes the door behind him, Bruce's nostrils flare. Dick watches him take in the scent of a foreign alpha hanging on Dick's clothes and hair. Slade's scent all but smothers the familiar pack scent Dick typically carries with him.

But still. Bruce doesn't remark upon it. He tells Alfred to see Dick to his room, and then turns on his heel toward the study, likely to disappear down to the Cave.

"He worries about you," Alfred says, placing a hand on Dick's shoulder. "Constantly. I doubt there is a moment you're not on his mind, my boy. It does no good to give him more reason to fret."

Dick shrugs Alfred's hand off. "He has a funny way of showing it," he snaps and immediately feels bad. He turns to Alfred, shoulders hunched. "He won't talk to me, Alf. He won't even _look_ at me. My shoulder's fine!"

Alfred brushes a hand over Dick's shoulder where the mess of new pink scar tissue is centered beneath his shirt. It was a through and through, didn't hit anything important. Bruce has been shot _loads_ of times, and no one ever looked twice at him! "That was just the final straw," Alfred says. "You're too young for all the close calls you've had. Master Bruce loves you far too much to let it go on like this."

"Like what?" Dick demands. "We're partners! He and I both know the risks! What am I supposed to do? Pretend I was never Robin? I'll never be able to go back, Alf. I'll never be who I was before." 

How could he? All the things he knows now, all the habits and instincts Bruce beat into his head night after night, year after year--how could he forget that?

"Give him time. He still sees you as that boy he brought home from the circus," Alfred advises. "He's never been good at letting go."

Letting go of _what_ , Alfred doesn't say, but Dick can read between the lines. Control. With Bruce, it's always about control.

He lets Alfred walk him to his room and turns down the offer of a late lunch. Dick closes the door after him and throws himself on the bed, blinking back the swell of angry tears. How could he? How _could_ Bruce?

He pulls out his phone and scrolls through his contacts. Slade's name stares back at him. He's only just left Slade. Texting him ten minutes later… that's too much, isn't it? Too desperate? Wally would know. Donna, definitely. But he couldn't just come out with it. _I'm flirting with an alpha who might be older than Bruce. How do I get his attention without looking too desperate?_ Dick sighs and sets the phone on his bedside table. Yeah, right. He couldn't bother them with more of his Bruce crap, and he definitely couldn't bother them with this.

Dick makes it another three hours before he finally breaks.

_you were right. bruce threw a fit._

Dick sends the text before he can talk himself out of it. His heart pounds. Slade did say to message him, but what if he was just being nice? What if he just wanted the whiny kid out of his car? Dick goes to put the phone down, resigned to pretend the whole afternoon never happened, when he hears his text notification go off.

He yanks the phone back and thumbs the screen lock to see Slade's name pop up. 

_Shocking_ is all it says, but Dick doesn't have the time to be disappointed. A second message pops up almost immediately. _He got you locked up?_

 _like he could!_ Dick shoots back, feeling that earlier thrill unfurl in his chest. Slade is new and exciting and just the right kind of forbidden--and more importantly, he's just Dick's.

_That's right. Three months to freedom, right?_

The reminder dims Dick's enthusiasm a little, but he shoves the feeling aside. _im already free_ he replies. _bruce doesnt really care what i do_. It's patently untrue, but Slade doesn't need to know that. 

_Where are you?_

Dick frowns. What does that have to do with anything? _at the manor still. my room._

 _Send me a picture_ Slade's next text says, and Dick's eyebrows shoot up.

It's not like he's _never_ sent a risqué picture before, but this feels different. Dick lies back on the bed. He tugs his shirt up and his pants down low over his hips. He gets the bottom of his jaw in the frame but keeps the focus on his body and takes the picture.

The quick response Dick expects doesn't come. His heart sinks. Maybe…. Maybe that wasn't what Slade meant? Maybe Dick misunderstood? But the notification ping tears him out of his thoughts.

 _You look good_ , Slade says. Then the phone rings. 

The sound startles Dick so badly he drops the phone at first. He fumbles it back into his hand and accepts the call with a breathless, "Hello?"

"You took your time. I was beginning to think you'd lost your nerve," Slade says. His voice is low and husky, and it sends a shiver down Dick's spine. 

"Who, me?" Dick laughs. "It's no big deal." He's lying through his teeth. If Slade were there, he'd see how Dick's hand shakes, the nervous flush blotching his face and neck. He gets up and locks the door, then sits back down on the edge of the bed.

"Maybe." Slade's voice in his ear feels so intimate, like he's right behind Dick. Dick can almost feel the weight of Slade against his back. He wishes he could scent Slade again, feel that rush of pheromones. "Then how about you get those clothes off?"

"Off?" Dick nearly squeaks the word. 

"Sure. It's no big deal, right?"

Dick's stomach flops. It's not really that big of a deal, is it? No one's actually looking at him. He pulls off his shirt, and kicks off his pants and underwear. He can hear Slade breathing on the other end of the line. "Then what?" Dick asks. He feels light-headed.

"Lie back," Slade instructs. "Open your legs."

Dick's already wet, his cock hard. He does what Slade tells him to do. "It's cold," Dick says. His nipples peak into hardened nubs.

"Better warm yourself up then," Slade says. "Rub your cunt. Tell me what it feels like."

The word _cunt_ sends a jolt through Dick. It's not that he didn't expect the call to get sexual, but... so quickly? Breathing shakily, he snakes a hand between his legs and rubs at the wet seam between them--not pressing in, just feeling. "I'm wet," Dick says, eyes fluttering shut. "It feels good…" 

"Anyone ever touched you like this before?"

"Just me," Dick murmurs. He slides one slick finger between his folds, teases himself for the briefest of seconds, then slides inside. He's never been shy about satisfying himself. But now, with Slade in his ear, an odd shame unearths itself. 

"Untouched? With a face like that? Good boy," Slade says, and just like that, Dick comes. His cock, ignored, jerks and spills, and he clenches around his finger. He can't control the soft keen he's making, nor the way his eyes close and his neck bares itself almost of its own accord. 

Slade is laughing. "I see what you need," he says. Dick just lays there and pants. His finger is still in his cunt. He doesn't know what Slade means. 

The thing is, Dick figures he doesn't _need_ to know. He'll either pick it up along the way, or Slade will tell him. It's what worked with Bruce. 

"What about you?" Dick finally asks. His heart is back to its normal pace, but thinking about returning the favor makes it kick up in speed again--not necessarily in a good way. This isn't flirting with Roy, the kind of teasing that goes nowhere. The kind Dick controls. This is more than that. He keeps remembering Bruce telling him he's not a kid anymore. 

Guess Bruce was right about that, at least.

"Don't worry about me. When you get me off the first time, it won't be over the phone, kid."

________

Bruce's frigid silence doesn't ease over the following days. Dick sees him more on television than he does in person, championing the housing initiative in Crime Alley. He only sees Bruce for the brief period of time it takes him to walk from the front door to the Cave's entrance. Dick _almost_ follows him, but he's too scared Bruce will have changed the access code.

Slade talks to Dick every day.

He hasn't gotten Dick off again, but he's hinted at what he wants. Dick oscillates between a desperate overeagerness and queasy anxiety. He wants Slade's attention as much as he's afraid of it. It's the best thing in his life right now. Yet, it's something he never wants anyone to find out about.

There's so much he can't talk about anymore.

Dick finally gives in a week later and tries his access code to the Cave. To his surprise, the clock swings open as always. He hasn't been locked out, but now that the door is open, he's nearly too scared to go down. Bruce hasn't spoken to him since they fought. A longer silence than ever before. Dick doesn't know how he'll react to Dick just showing up in the Cave. 

"Only one way to find out," Dick mutters. 

Halfway down the stairs, he hears the familiar sound of Bruce's rapid fire typing. The light of the Batcomputer spills across the bottom of the stairs, illuminating Dick the moment he sets foot in the Cave. Bruce might not be looking at him, but he knows Dick is there.

Dick clears his throat. "Bruce, can we talk?"

For a moment, Bruce does nothing. Then he turns in the chair. "What would you like to talk about?"

The anger surges up again, but Dick smothers the feeling. "It's been a week, B. We haven't spoken, not once! I get that you were freaked out--"

Bruce stands, slamming his palm on the console. The echo is deafening. "You nearly died." Bruce is calm, his voice quiet. It's not a good sign. "The Joker shot you. I couldn't stop him."

"Bruce--"

"And instead of accepting that you're benched," here Bruce's voice gains in volume as he stalks toward Dick, "instead of following orders, you disappeared. You ditched your obligations and showed up hours later _reeking_ of alpha. Which part of that would you like to talk about?" He towers over Dick, larger in every way, his scent swelling between them, but Dick refuses to let himself be cowed. His designation means nothing, not in the Cave. He won't submit.

"Maybe I wouldn't have, if you'd just listen to me!" Shouting isn't helpful. The logical part of Dick's brain knows this, but the rest of his brain, frothing with anger, drowns all rationality out. "Maybe I wouldn't have had to find someone else! I'm supposed to be your partner!"

"You're my responsibility! And the moment you stopped following my command, you became a liability! There's no place for you out there!" Bruce's arm sweeps out, gesturing toward the city. 

"Robin is _me_! He's all I have! I won't let you take him away!"

"You aren't _letting_ me do anything," Bruce says, cold as ice. "Everything in this Cave belongs to me, Dick. Robin included. Letting you out with me was a mistake."

For a moment, all Dick can hear is his mother's voice, _my little robin_. Robin is his. Robin is _everything_. Bruce has _no fucking clue_ what he's saying.

Bruce turns, a clear dismissal, but Dick's anger burns, exploding out of him. He shoves Bruce, refusing to be ignored. 

The hit takes him completely by surprise.

Dick's on the ground, the side of his face alight with pain, but his brain can't seem to process _why_ he hurts and _how_ he ended up on the cold hard floor. He looks up, one hand pressed to his aching cheek, and sees Bruce's outstretched fist. Bruce hasn't moved a muscle, staring at his own hand with something akin to surprise. He's breathing nearly as hard as Dick is.

"Bruce," Dick says. Stops. He hit him. Bruce _hit_ him.

Dick scrambles to his feet, stumbling a few steps backwards. He watches Bruce.

Bruce unfreezes. He drops his fist by his side and looks at Dick. Then he sits back down at the console. He doesn't say a word.

He doesn't care.

Dick doesn't need to wait for anything else. He rushes back up the stairs, slamming the clock behind him. Bruce doesn't call after him.

He doesn't stop for anything. Dick runs straight out the front door and down the long slope of the driveway, feet hitting the road and carrying him on. His face aches, and his shoulder is sore where it caught his full weight when he hit the ground. Dick can't let himself stop. If he stops running, his instincts will get the better of him. He can smell the sour scent of his own distress. 

Eventually, he stumbles, catching himself before he hits the asphalt and collapsing on the side of the road. This far out, there isn't much traffic. Just Dick. Alone, with nowhere to go. 

Dick pulls out his phone. No messages. Bruce didn't try to catch up with him. He's not looking for him. Sliding his thumb over his screen, he pulls up a different name and hits the call button. 

"Slade," Dick says. "I need your help."

________

When the sleek black car rolls to a stop next to Dick, he doesn't bother looking up. He's sitting on the grass, knees up and his forehead down. He sees Slade's feet as he approaches, is aware of him crouching down. He nearly flinches when Slade cards a hand through his sweat soaked hair.

"Look at me," Slade says, and Dick, so tired of fighting, obeys. Slade whistles low. "That's a hell of a shiner."

"Yeah."

"Wayne did that?" Slade brushes his knuckles against the swollen skin. 

Dick shrugs. He doesn't want to say it. If he says it, then it's real. 

"Come on." Slade stands back up. "Get in. You're coming with me." He waits until Dick is looking at him to say, "I'll take care of you, son."

Dick lets out an embarrassing keen, cutting it off too late to disguise the sound. He clambers to his feet and sways into Slade. Slade wraps his arms around Dick, squeezing him tight. Then he gives Dick a gentle push toward the car.

Slade will take care of him. He doesn't need Bruce. Dick has an alpha who _actually_ cares. One who doesn't treat him like a misbehaving child. He lets Slade buckle his seatbelt for him and shut the door, basking in the casual care. Slade wants him around. Slade _wants_ Dick.

The ride into the city is mostly silent. Dick drifts in and out of sleep, exhaustion hitting him too suddenly to fight off. When Slade shakes him awake, it's only been fifteen minutes or so. They're at the valet station for the Hotel Belle Monico. 

"Come on, kid. Out." Slade's voice is gruff, but he still undoes Dick's seatbelt and gets the door for him. Dick can't help the wobbly smile stuck on his face.

He lets Slade tuck him under his arm and lead him into the hotel. Dick has heard of Belle Monico, but he's never actually been inside. It's definitely a luxury hotel, the kind of place Bruce would stay on a business trip. Slade walks him directly to the elevator and hits the button for the penthouse, then punches in a code.

The elevator opens directly into the penthouse suite. Slade finally lets Dick go and walks through the lounge to a door at the far end. After a beat, Dick follows.

The room is a bedroom. There's a bathroom off to the side, and Slade is standing in front of it, holding the door open. "Come on, son," Slade says. "You're a mess. Get a shower. I'll grab you something to wear."

The moment Slade points it out, Dick realizes how disgusting he feels. He's sweaty and covered in grass and dirt. He's surprised Slade let him in his car. "Thanks. I won't take long."

"Take as long as you need."

Even with Slade's reassurance, Dick finds himself rushing through the shower. He hears the door open and then quickly close at one point but thinks nothing of it. 

Until he sees what Slade has left on the counter.

The robe is a little smaller than Dick would have liked. He has to hold it closed to keep himself covered, and the bottom of it barely falls an inch below his ass. He's already embarrassed, but when he opens the bathroom door and sees Slade sitting on the edge of the bed staring at him, it's difficult not to slam the door shut and hide.

"It's a little small," Dick says.

"All I could find." Slade shrugs. He pats the space next to him. "Come here. Let me take a look at that bruise."

"It's fine," Dick says, even as he sits down and tilts his face toward Slade. "It barely hurts."

Slade hums but says nothing. He runs his fingers over the side of Dick's face, probing at the bruise. "He didn't hold back. Must have been pretty pissed."

Dick looks down. "Yeah. I--he was pretty mad." 

"Some alphas don't know how to handle a difficult omega." Slade turns Dick's face the other way, then lets his hand drag down, resting over Dick's throat. He strokes his thumb over Dick's lower lip. 

"You think I'm difficult?" The word stings. Dick doesn't try to be difficult. He wants to be good. He tries _so hard_.

But Slade laughs. "I _know_ you're difficult. But I told you, didn't I? I know what you need."

No doubt Slade can feel the way Dick's pulse is racing. "What," Dick starts, then he has to pause and swallow against the desert-dryness in his mouth. "What do I need?"

Slade lets his throat go. "A firm hand. For someone to take care of you. You want that? An alpha to tell you how it is?"

To Dick's great embarrassment, he _does_ want that. He wants Slade to look after him. In that moment, there's nothing he wants more than for Slade to scent him and wrap Dick up in his arms. He wants to sleep with Slade's comforting weight pressed against him. He wants Slade to give him all the comfort and care Bruce never could.

Slade pushes the robe off Dick's shoulders.

Dick squirms, trying to keep it on. "What are you doing?"

"What you wanted," Slade says. He pulls the robe free of Dick's grip and pushes it to pool around his waist. "You want me to take care of you, right?" He lowers his head and runs his tongue over Dick's scent gland. 

Dick's body responds. He crosses his arms over his chest and looks off to the side. "Slade, I--I don't know--" He's not ready. Dick knows at once that he isn't ready for this, but he can't seem to get the words out. His body is so unlike an omega, scarred and covered in lean muscle. His instincts can't seem to settle. He wants to pull Slade closer. He wants to run.

Slade wriggles a hand between Dick's thighs and rubs at his cunt. "Really? This feels like you know." 

Dick's legs fall open. He grabs Slade's wrist but doesn't push him away. He lets out a low whine. "Slade, please--"

"Please what?" One of those thick fingers breaches him, rubbing against his inner walls. Dick can hear the squelching noises, evidence of his own arousal. It's humiliating. 

"I'm scared," he blurts. "I've never--no one's ever--"

"Untouched," Slade growls. "As if I could forget." He pushes Dick back, helps him move up the bed until he's resting his head on the pillows. The robe is gone, shoved off the edge of the bed. "I can't wait to taste you." He presses Dick's thighs open and ducks between them.

Dick's heart pounds against his ribcage. He jolts at the first stroke of Slade's tongue. 

Slade holds Dick's pussy open with two fingers, licking between them, spearing his tongue into Dick's body.

Dick's thighs clamp down on Slade's head. He draws his arms in tight, his body rocking against Slade's face. He can feel it, every thrust of his tongue, the pressure of his fingers prying him open. Fingering himself or stroking his cock doesn't come close. 

He reaches down to jack himself off, but Slade grabs his wrist and pulls away, mouth slick, pinning Dick in place with his eye and the sudden pressure of his mounting pheromones. "You don't touch yourself," Slade says carefully, "unless I tell you to. Understand, boy?"

Dick nods, his hair flopping in his eyes. "Sorry," he gasps, unable to ignore the way his cunt clenches, open and wanting. He's never felt anything like this. 

Slade crawls up his body, that cold blue eye focused completely on Dick. He kisses Dick, shoving his still clothed thigh between Dick's legs. "Soaking wet," Slade says against Dick's lips. "Needy little thing."

Dick whines. He can't stop riding Slade's thigh, can't help the way he's soaking through the dark slacks. When he finally comes, it's with Slade's thigh clenched between his legs, his cock shooting all over Slade's shirt.

Shifting off of Dick, Slade pulls his shirt off. He stands and kicks off the rest of his clothes. Dick's eyes fall between Slade's legs. He's enormous, already hard and wet at the head. His own cock throbs in sympathy, already taking interest again.

But the fear returns.

Even as Slade climbs back on him and ruts his cock against Dick's cunt, teasing him, Dick can feel himself retreating inwardly.

"Slade," he pants, grabbing the man's upper arms. "Wait, listen--"

Slade shuts him up with a kiss, then another, keeps him quiet with his tongue and teeth as he grabs his cock and rubs it on Dick's cunt, barely dipping in.

Dick shoves him harder this time. "Wait! Listen to me!"

Eye narrowed, Slade sits back on his haunches. His cock bobs between his legs, red and angry. "What?"

"I told you," Dick tries, hates the way he's stammering like a child. "I don't think--I'm not ready. I can't." Slade cares about him. He'll understand.

At first Slade doesn't say anything. He looks at Dick's sopping wet pussy, then back at Dick's face. "Tell me what you're not ready for."

That catches Dick off guard. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Slade begins, reaching out to stroke Dick's cunt before gripping his cock instead, "I want you to say _exactly_ what it is you're not ready for. Need help?"

"I--I'm not sure."

Slade squeezes his cock a little harder. "I want you to tell me you're not ready to have a big alpha cock in your slutty pussy."

Dick doesn't get it, not right away. Slade wants him to say _that_? "I'm not ready," he begins, voice shaking, "to have a big alpha cock in me."

"In your what?"

Face burning, Dick clenches his eyes shut. "I'm not ready to have a big alpha cock in my slutty pussy," he parrots, wincing over the way he stumbles over the last few words.

Slade lets go of his cock. "Good boy," he rumbles, the pleased sound of an alpha. "I knew you could be good."

"You...you understand?" Dick lets his thighs close. He wants to ask Slade to hold him. They could just lay down together. 

"Sure," Slade says. "You've got another hole. We can work up to loosening your cunt."

"Another hole?" Dick echoes. But Slade said he understood.

Slade grabs Dick by the hips and flips him over, pushing his chest into the bed and keeping his ass in the air. Dick tries to scramble up, but a sharp smack on his ass causes him to drop onto his chest again, hissing. "What are you doing?"

"Like I said, Wayne couldn't handle you, Dick. You just need someone to keep you in line. Keep your head on straight. But I'm not above compromising." Dick feels Slade's thumb against the crease of his ass, rubbing Dick's slick across it. "You're not ready to go all the way yet. I can respect that."

"Slade, no, not there--" But Dick isn't quick enough. Slade plunges a finger into Dick's ass up to the first knuckle.

Dick's body clenches down tight. He's never touched himself there, never even thought to. But Slade doesn't stop. He fucks that first finger into Dick, then adds a second, getting him wet and loose. Dick feels his cunt dripping, clenching around nothing.

"It's too much," Dick groans, spreading his legs wider against the feeling. "Slade, please!"

The fingers disappear, and Dick goes stiff when the head of Slade's cock rests against his ass. "What's wrong?" Slade asks. "You don't want this?"

Dick squirms. He doesn't _not_ want Slade. Slade came for him when Bruce hurt him. He's been so kind to him, always made time to talk to Dick every day. Dick _does_ want Slade. He has to.

He buries his face in his arms. "S'fine."

"What's fine? You have to be clear, Dick. I won't do anything you don't want."

Swallowing, Dick looks over his shoulder. Slade looks so big, much bigger than Dick. His scent is powerful, almost overpowering. But he isn't moving. "I want it," Dick says. 

"Want what?"

Dick can't look at him anymore. "Want you to fuck me," he mumbles into his arms.

Slade tuts. "Be clear, Dick. _Where_ do you want me to fuck you?"

"My--my ass," Dick stammers. "I want you to fuck me in my ass."

"Good boy," Slade says again. Then he rolls his hips forward.

When the tip pushes in, Dick's first thought is _this isn't so bad_. Then the next inch comes. And the next. Dick can't spread his legs wide enough, can't stop the way his hips shake. "Too much," he rushes, nearly sobbing. "Slade, it's too big, pull it out!"

Slade's fingers clamp down on Dick's hips. "You're fine," he grunts. "Halfway there."

 _Fuckfuckfuck_ , Dick's mind can't stop chanting. It's too much, way too much. Slade is splitting him open, reshaping Dick's body. When the beginning of his knot finally rests against Dick, Dick is panting, mouth open, drooling on his arms and the bed. His cunt is sopping, clenching desperately. He whines, beyond words, and comes again on Slade's cock. 

Slade pats his hip. "You're doing well," he says. Then he pulls back and begins to thrust.

Dick can barely keep his eyes open. He's whining, gasping, trapped in Slade's grip. He's dragging Dick back and forth on his cock, all the way down until his knot rocks against his hole. 

He knows he's crying, couldn't stop even if he wanted. Every aspect of Dick's body feels completely beyond his control. All sensation is narrowed down to his hole, to the overwhelming feeling of Slade fucking him stupid. 

A particularly hard thrust nearly pushes Slade's knot in, and Dick feels his earlier panic resurfacing.

Another hard thrust. The knot nearly catches, nearly pushes all the way in, and Dick sobs, overwhelmed. "Don't knot," Dick forces out. "Please, too much, it'll hurt--"

Slade keeps fucking him, every thrust a little harder than the last. "So good," Slade is panting, "so fucking good, could fuck this hole forever…"

Dick's already come twice. Yet without the knotting his body craves, he's simultaneously overstimulated and starving for more. But his brain stewing in pheromones doesn't save him from the moment Slade's knot shoves inside him and locks in place, swelling inside his ass. Dick yelps, trying to scramble away from the sensation, but Slade drags him in and bites down on the back of his neck. A warning hold. 

The tears start leaking from the corners of Dick's eyes again. He feels every jerk of Slade's cock, the terrifying pressure of his knot growing in a place it doesn't belong. 

When Slade finally stops coming, he gently rolls them onto their sides, running a soothing hand over Dick's belly. 

"It hurts," Dick says after a moment, the rabbit quick pounding of his heartbeat slowly evening out to a normal pace. 

Slade shushes him, his big hand splayed across Dick's belly. "No, you're just tense. Your body didn't get what it wanted."

The thought that Dick didn't want any of this crosses his mind, but he disregards it. Dick _did_ want it. He's just overwhelmed. "You're too big," he says, voice breaking. 

He feels Slade nuzzling the top of his head, breathing in against his hair. "Too tense," he mutters. "I'll take care of that."

The hand on Dick's belly creeps down to stroke his cock. He's come twice, though. Dick squirms away from the feeling. 

"Too much," he says, frantic. 

Slade shushes him again. His hand goes lower, pushing Dick's leg up to rest on top of Slade's. "I've got you," Slade says. "Just lay back and let me make you feel good." He hooks two fingers into Dick's cunt, working him roughly. The hand under Dick gropes at his chest, tugging at his nipples. "One more time for me," Slade growls into Dick's ear. "Come on my cock again." He has three fingers in Dick now, fucking into him fast. 

Dick is whimpering and clenching around Slade's knot, around those thick fingers. He arches his chest, seeking the rough touch. 

When Dick comes for the last time, his cock doesn't even twitch. His cunt spasms, the feeling reaching all the way into his core. Slade doesn't stop working Dick's cunt until he's trembling and crying again, overcome with sensation.

"Please," Dick begs, and this time, Slade listens and pulls his fingers out. He curls around Dick, warm and comfortable and with an edge of possessiveness.

"You did good," Slade tells him. He kisses Dick’s forehead, then the bruise darkening the side of his face. "Wayne's a fool."

"He was so mad," Dick finds himself saying.

"About the golf thing?"

"Yes." Not exactly, but Dick can hardly tell the truth.

"He must be really into that housing initiative if he was willing to beat you black and blue over it. Him and, what's his name?"

"Who?" 

"The investor. Nice guy."

Dick yawns. "Jim Argos is supposed to be anonymous," he says. "How did you meet him?"

"We run in the same circles," Slade says vaguely. He pulls out then, his knot finally going down enough to slip free of Dick's body. 

Dick cringes at the soreness, then again at the fluid he feels leaking out of him. "I need to clean up." He starts to sit up, but Slade pushes him back down.

"You stay right there." The growl is back in his voice. Dick goes limp. "I want you smelling just like that when I get back."

"Back?" Dick asks, rolling over in bed and watching Slade disappear into the bathroom. "Where are you going?"

Slade comes out of the bathroom wiping himself down with a rag. He tosses it in the corner and grabs his clothes, tugging them on. "You need clothes," he says. "I can't let you out in that little robe, can I?"

"But," Dick bites his lip. "You _are_ coming back, right?" Something feels off. He doesn't want Slade to leave. Being alone feels wrong.

"I'll be back in an hour," Slade promises. "And I expect to see you right where I left you. Do you understand?"

Dick nods, eyebrows furrowed. "I'll stay here. I won't move."

"Good boy," Slade says, closing the door behind him. 

Dick lays down and wraps himself in the sheets, uncertainty overcoming him. Slade left right after they--right after. Maybe Dick was no good. He should have let Slade fuck him. Next time, he decides as he drifts off to sleep, he'll do better.

________

"I didn't even hear you come in last night," Dick says the next morning when Slade finally rolls him out of bed.

"You sleep like the dead," Slade points out. He slaps Dick's ass and points at the bathroom. "Clean up. I ordered breakfast up."

Dick doesn't rush this time, taking the time to soak in the tub. He's sore, _really_ sore, but he's not as scared as he was the night before. Slade actually came back for him. Everything will be okay.

When he gets out of the shower, he pulls on the yoga pants and shirt Slade set out for him and goes out into the lounge.

The food is there, an extravagant spread that makes Dick's mouth water. But then he notices the television is on and holding Slade's complete attention.

"...local businessman James Argos was found dead early this morning. According to an inside source at the GCPD, the death is being treated as a suicide. Information discovered on the late Mr. Argos' private server cast a dim light on the Wayne Foundation's housing initiative for Crime Alley. The initiative drew criticism from the city council early on, though the Foundation was set to have the initiative confirmed early next week. Financial documents from Mr. Argos' home detailing suspicious transactions reportedly affiliated with the initiative have all but assured it will not be approved. No comment yet from Wayne Foundation spokesperson--"

The television shuts off. "A damn shame," Slade says. 

"I can't believe it," Dick says, and for a moment he really can't. Something is off. Something is definitely off, but Slade grabs his hand and tugs him onto the sofa with him, cutting off his train of thought.

"Coffee?" he asks.

Dick relaxes. "Yeah, thanks." He takes the cup and sips, pleasantly surprised. Exactly how he likes it. "You know me well," he tells Slade, cracking a grin.

"You're right," Slade says. "I do."


End file.
